She of the Mountains (8 page)

Do you want to look at the stars tonight?
she asked.

He responded with an enthusiastic
yes
into the receiver.

This had become one of their cherished pastimes. She would drive them somewhere secluded, usually by the man-made pond behind the Millwoods sign, and park the car. They would recline their seats, and instead of looking through the sunroof that her car did not have, they would stare at the grey fuzzy roof and let the currents circulate.

His mixtape through her tape deck.

The lyrics onto her lips,

the melody lingering in her throat.

Her voice in his ears, quickening his pulse, shooting down

into his left palm covering her left thumb.

Their breathing united in a growing fog.

On the nights that they wanted more from the music, to twist their bodies into each other against a hard and constant beat, they went dancing. It was awkward at first, going to The Only Local Gay Bar together as a couple. But he preferred being in a space where his moves weren't limited to the general male domain of shoulder shrugging and head bopping, where he could transfer the reins of his body to the music without worrying about getting called
sissy
, and she felt relieved to be in a space where she wasn't having to give the phone number of the local pizza delivery to men who asked her breasts out, so it kind of worked out.

In addition to stargazing and dancing, in the past four months there had been road trips to Calgary, the exchange of birthday presents, secrets, sweat, and spit, and the finishing of each other's sentences. She complained about the latter, worrying about what it meant to have someone else so attuned to the very private sanctum of her internal dialogue.

He worried too.

After every day they spent together, it became easier to envision another day and harder to endure the days apart. On days when he was less careful, he allowed himself to daydream. Who could they be outside their parents' homes? Who could they be outside of university? Maybe they would move to Vancouver; she loved the ocean, and he loved every city that wasn't Edmonton.

But the graver question for him was one that loomed throughout his daydreams, diffusing them:
But aren't I gay?

If he were gay, something had to be missing between them, even though, when he examined his heart, looking for gaps, inconsistencies, or moments of unhappiness, it appeared fuller now than it had ever been. So he examined her.

What about him?
He pointed at the man wearing the faded baseball hat, crossing the street ahead of them.

No way. He looks like Joey from
Friends.

What about him? He looks like your type.

What is my type?

He imagined her much happier with an older, smarter, bulkier man, a professor. She would live with him in a spacious, sunlit loft in Montreal, with a wall of philosophy and science books. His name would be Bernard or a hyphenated French name like Jean-Luc or Marc-André. Bernard would wear rugby sweaters and thick framed glasses and could confidently converse about cars and hockey with her brother and dad.

Don't you wish I was more manly?
he asked.

You are a man,
she responded.

No, but like … a real man. A man that doesn't know all the words to
The Little Mermaid
soundtrack. A man that isn't attracted to other men.

I love when we sing together. And being attracted to other men doesn't make you less of a man. It's actually pretty hot.

You know what I mean …

No, I don't.

When she didn't give him the answer he expected, when
I'm gay
didn't mean he was somehow lacking or inferior in her esteem, he was forced to revert his inspection back to himself.

In his stomach, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was maybe a fraud, lying to her and lying to himself, despite his honesty. After all, how could he know if his feelings were in fact genuine and not just some part of him still resisting
I'm gay
?

He had also never kissed a boy, let alone dated one, and while he couldn't imagine what could feel better than her lips and his lips, he didn't feel informed enough to dismiss the potential of his lips and another his lips.
I'm gay
meant that a part of him felt that there must be a better, truer kiss waiting for him, somewhere.

So how could he keep kissing her?

The next three minutes would determine the course of the rest of his day. One hundred and eighty seconds turned into dots that needed to be connected and interpreted, a task he would commit himself to during sociology, on the forty-minute bus ride home, and probably while he watched
Party of Five
. He would call her, and together they would discuss what the final result of his day's analysis meant and how best to prepare for next week.

Post-breakup, they were slowly transitioning into friendship. They still weren't able to prevent their hands and mouths from fastening onto each other, but they independently and unusually decided not to talk about it. Instead, they interpreted talking about other romantic interests as an adequate indication that they were moving on.

He stopped on the side of the corridor that bridged the law building to the university mall and pretended to look for something inside his bag, but what he was looking for was up ahead. Any second now, That Guy was going to walk by.

They would do the gay dance with their eyes—stare, look away, stare, look away—each modelling for the other's hidden camera. No smile, in case the other wasn't gay or wasn't interested. In Alberta, the combination of a stare and a smile, from one man to another, however brief, could be dangerous. He couldn't allow himself to forget this.

That Guy's unpredictability only heightened his attraction. Last week, That Guy had barely made eye contact, mostly looking
at his phone. The week before, That Guy had slowed down and licked his lips as though he was getting ready to say something. What was That Guy going to say? How would he respond? He would probably first pat the back of his head to make sure his cowlick was not too visible and shake his bangs to make sure his new pimple was properly concealed.

What he wanted was more than a stare, more than an exchange of words, more than to see or touch what was beneath the cotton and denim.

He wanted to feel the validation of a man's desire. And not just any man's. He wanted to be desired by The Man He Deemed Desirable. When distracted in Shakespeare 101, he scribbled in his notebook:

If I made you King

and you named me your Prince—

Then who is King

and who is Prince?

If That Guy, whom he had chosen, liked him, thought he was good and worthy and beautiful, perhaps he too could think he possessed these qualities. Perhaps he could even like himself.

Or better, he could forget about himself completely. If only the connected dots materialized into a mask and cape that allowed him to transform into That Guy. To be able to fill out his clothing like That Guy, instead of having fabric gliding down his bony build like oversized drapes. To be able to walk with a sway-free,
heterosexual coordination, in full military control of his shoulders, arms, hips, quads, and heels. To have a slim but elegant nose, one that conveyed confidence, instead of the gluttonous mound with two giant open windows for nostrils he had inherited via his dad from the motherland. To be learning the secret language of Law, which would lead to a model future championing justice by day and resting in a three-storey home at night, instead of pouring over the work of dead English poets, searching for (or, more accurately, hiding from) the answer to the most important question in the world:
What do you plan on doing with your Arts degree?

To be the guy that another guy waits for, every Wednesday, from 12:30 to 12:33 p.m.

You are going to be my boyfriend.

These were the first words Smith said to him, the first time they met at a mutual friend's birthday party.

This forwardness surprised him, but the prophecy itself did not. Smith was a celebrity dancer, often featured in the local news, and with each Smith sighting, each mention of Smith's name in conversation, it never felt like a random occurrence, but rather a step toward each other. It wasn't a feeling of destiny, of future promise, as he was certain that Smith was out of his league, but a feeling of familiarity, as though maybe in their childhoods they had attended the same school or had played in the same park.

In person, Smith was even more attractive—the magnetism of his physicality enhanced by his character. His brown hair was precisely parted and his matching brown eyes were surrounded by lines of kindness, as though his eyes genuinely cared about every subject upon which they fell. His hands gestured delicately when he spoke, adding an element of dance to everyday conversation, and though he was a commanding six foot three, he never seemed unapproachable, always the first person to say
hello
.

He wasn't sure if hanging out with Smith qualified as “dating” because, when Smith wasn't talking about how much he adored his border collie and his family, he talked about his ex-boyfriend. It had not been an amicable breakup, and Smith was brokenhearted. But Smith was the first boy he had ever hung out with/dated, so it was easy to ignore Smith's condition and start imagining their shared life. He would work at the downtown library during the day while Smith rehearsed. On Wednesdays, they would meet for lunch at the Korean restaurant where Smith used to be a server. Their evenings would be spent reading, his head on Smith's shoulder, on the second-hand loveseat in their small but well-designed apartment. He would get over his fear of dogs and stock up on lint rollers. He would attend Smith's every performance, watching from stage-side with a bouquet of pink roses to give to his man.

The first time he saw Smith's penis, they were on Smith's couch, arms around each other, lips against each other's.
Oops!
Smith said, signalling down with his eyes. Poking out from the waistband of his pants was what looked like a large pink thimble. He wasn't sure what to do at this point, if anything, aside from observe. Even that he wasn't sure of, and he had to remind himself:
It's okay to look
.

Smith recognized his paralysis and pulled down his own pants and white briefs. It stood proudly between them. As he gazed at Smith's penis, he couldn't help but think of his own. This comparing and contrasting seemed to be an inevitable by-product of having sex with a man.